Ten Vignettes of America
by Hihippy
Summary: Ten short drabbles of 100 words concerning small themes and America. Some angst, some maybe controversial thoughts. Dedicated for a friend's birthday. T for some serious thoughts, I suppose.


**Please R&R**

* * *

**i.** swap

"You should try swapping your life for one of us." He mutters at me. The cigarette dangling in his hand balances precariously on his finger tips. I stare at it.

"And what'll that do?"

"You'll see what it's like. You'll see what it's like not to be spoiled and have always got what you want."

There's a pause.

"You sayin' I don't know what life is like?"

"Course not; you are just too young to know truly."

My lips remained tightened into a smile, but the burn of the scar of ten years prickles in scorn.

I think I know. 

* * *

**ii.** love

"I _loved_ you, how could you-"

The rain was a torrential downpour. It dripped, and dribbled down onto his cheeks. I couldn't tell if he was crying.

"…W-What are you doing Alfred, this is a joke—"

The grip on the musket tightens. It falls. I'm forced to stand and listen. The only other option is to shoot.

I don't want to.

"Raise your gun."

He doesn't listen. He's angry.

"_Did you? DID YOU EVER-_"

"_RAISE YOUR GUN!_"

We stare. I look down. I'm trembling.

"I love you."

The gun rises.

".. But I love my freedom more." 

* * *

**iii.** headache

I have a headache. It's drumming into my head as though someone came along and hit me with a hammer.

They're all shouting. Fists banging on wooden surfaces, faces red. They're all blaming me.

I sigh, and it doesn't go down well. The shouting increases.

"It's your entire fault!"

Of course it is. It always is.

What can I do? I'm the one with the headache. I'm already getting it hard. Don't they know?

They frown at me. Oh, now they won't listen anymore. This is mature.

This can't be what being a nation is all about.

It just can't. 

* * *

**iv.** finding

I've found it.

It was there and dusty, but I've found it.

Round, unblinking eyes stare back at me as my nose crinkles, sneezing after a moment. It's been here longer than expected.

I hold it to my cheek to nuzzle in a quiet burst of affection, and the fur tickles my nose. The dust makes my eyes water.

"Found you." I smile, before propping it on the shelf next to me. I pat at its head.

The bear gazes back at me, forever fixed in one expression.

_You didn't find me_, it says, _You just remembered to look again._

_

* * *

_

**v.** depth

I'm in my depth.

Money. Money, money, money. That's all that matters anymore.

"Sort this out!" They demand.

Why did I become this? I don't want to lead the world anymore. I want to hide.

I didn't know I'd get thrown in at the deep end.

But they all look at me. Eyebrows raised, questions, criticisms poised.

They can see it in my eyes. I don't know.

I say two words I've had to say for a long time.

"I'm sorry."

They don't believe me. They don't think I can swim anymore.

I can.

I'm just not allowed to float. 

* * *

**vi.** name

"You shall be called Alfred, and you will be my Thirteen Colonies."

Thirteen always was an unlucky number, Arthur.

"Then you're the Motherland!"

I suppose that never did last long.

"You're not a _nation_, America. You will do as I say."

Why do you think you can control me with a name?

"I am _not_ your 'little brother' anymore…"

We never called each other that again.

I grew up. Yet I _thrived._

"Who do you _think_ you are?"

What is in a name?

"My name," I pause.

There's a grin. I know.

"My name is the United States of America." 

* * *

**vii.** laugh

They say I never take things seriously. Right now.

It's a soccer match. It's a ball. What does it matter?

They mumble and grumble into their drinks, eyes casting darkly at me. In spite. In mockery. I got out, but who cares?

It's just a game.

They're drunk. Maybe I shouldn't be around Europeans. They don't take me seriously.

One of them stumbles up to me, and pokes me square in the chest.

"…Be…Be'… y' wish you never even joined…"

I look down at him.

"Maybe."

"Good."

My lips twitch.

"But you weren't saying that about the war."

I laugh. 

* * *

**viii.** frustration

They're frustrated? They're frustrated?

"Yes!" They scream back. "You claim to be the strongest nation out there, yet you don't know how to control yourself. Leave us alone, we don't need you!"

That hurts. I take it.

Oh, look at the news. Natural disaster. Thousands of people stranded.

"America, where are you? We need your help! Help us please?"

So they're frustrated, are they?

Maybe they could make their minds up. Do they want me to help?

Really?

But I'm the hero. I'm the freaking hero.

I'll help. I'll always help.

As much as it frustrates me to do so. 

* * *

**ix.** mood

Damnit, why is Arthur always so grumpy?

Why is Ivan always so sinister?

What makes Antonio so passionate?

Why is Francis always so perverted? – wait, don't answer that one.

Matthew is always so quiet – why?

How is Kiku always so polite?

They always seem to be in a set mood – even now, at some relaxing, small party. Romano's always contradictory, Feliciano's always oblivious, Ludwig's always serious and Gilbert's always loud.

It's always the same mood. We're still human…

We all feel pain. We all hide it. It's how we are.

But why…

Why do I always have to be happy? 

* * *

**x.** know

"Hahah, you're so stupid."

"You won't get anywhere"

"It's all going to come back to you one day, just you see."

"You deserved that."

How…

Why would they say that?

I'm just another nation. I'm just the same as them. Sure, I was born later. Sure, I had most things handed to me.

But we're not any different…

Why do they hate me?

"You're just a good-for-nothing, spoilt nation who thinks they can run in and do what they like! You have another thing coming, America! You'll see!"

My lips thin. My eyes glaze.

I've got the message.

"I _know_."


End file.
